TITLE: After Tithonus
SPOILER WARNING: Tithonus
RATING: R, for sexual situations
CONTENT WARNING: MSR.
CLASSIFICATION: VRA
SUMMARY: Tithonus post-ep. Alternate universe, in which Mulder was the one who
worked the Fellig case. Based on the following quote: "I think I'd become a
hermit, actually. That way I'd never have to deal with losing someone I loved."
-- Fox Mulder, "But Ourselves", by Marguerite
Of course, any lameness is my own doing.
After Tithonus
by Brandon D. Ray
He liked to go for walks along the river at sunset. In the summer it was cool
and breezy by the river, allowing him to escape from the heat of the day, if
only briefly. In the winter it was cold and the wind cut like a knife,
reminding him that he was, after all, still alive. Whether he wanted to be or
not.
He also liked walking by the river because it cut straight through the heart of
the campus, and that meant that most of the people he encountered were students:
Young, vibrant and full of life and energy. Only very occasionally did he see
one of them grayed out, an indication of impending tragedy. And when he did, he
looked away.
He had tried living as a hermit, in an old rambling farmhouse far out in the
countryside, but it had not been bearable. It left him alone with his own
thoughts far too much of the time, and with him that had never been a good idea.
And so finally he had moved to the small college town on the banks of the river
and constructed a quiet and reclusive existence, and tried not to think too
much.
It was in the third year of his sojourn that she finally found him. He had
known in the back of his mind that eventually she would return to his life. She
was smart and tenacious and she had resources, including her experience in
helping him with his own quest all those years ago. And perhaps, he admitted to
himself as he walked up the block towards the house which his neighbors thought
was his home, perhaps deep down inside he wanted her to find him.
She was sitting in the driver's seat of a late model Ford, parked so that she
was facing away from him. For a moment it occurred to him that he could turn
and walk away and disappear once again into the wilderness of civilization, but
even as he thought the words his feet were moving him forward, and in another
moment he rapped on the glass of the car window, and she looked up at him and
smiled.
He smiled back.
It was his first smile in nearly three years, and was to be his last for many
hours yet to come.
# # #
They walked in silence for awhile, down by the river, easily falling into step
with one another in the old accustomed way. The tension he had expected was not
present, the mere fact of being together again after three years of separation
apparently being all that was needed for both of them to understand what was at
stake and know how the game would be played. It would still be necessary for
them to speak the words, and of course the outcome was very much in doubt, but
there was no hurry; they had time to become reacquainted with each other's
presence first.
"I loved you, you know."
It did not surprise him that she spoke first; she had always been the more
forthright of the two of them, while he had constantly secondguessed and doubted
his own thoughts and feelings. Only on the rarest of occasions -- usually in
moments of great stress and danger -- had his desire for her overcome his fear
of intimacy. But that had been years ago, and he had changed, and her presence
by his side now gave him strength, rather than weakening him as it so often had
in the past.
"I loved you, too," he replied, glancing briefly down at her as they walked past
the theater building. "That was why I left; I couldn't bear the thought of...."
He let his voice trail off, trusting her to complete his sentence for him. And
after a moment, she did.
"You couldn't bear the thought of having me and then losing me." She looked up
and waited for his nod before continuing. "But isn't that just what you've done
by running away? Except that by running you've denied the good part to both of
us, leaving only the heartache and loneliness."
In another time and place he might have been left breathless by this stark
statement of her feelings, as well as by her shrewd analysis of his. Neither of
them had ever been very good at expressing their emotions, choosing to hold on
to the friendship they had in a needy, almost neurotic way, rather than reaching
out for the greater closeness which he had known in his heart they both wanted.
Even then he had known it; even then.
But that had been years ago, and they both had changed. And so all he said now
was, "I know." Calmly accepting responsibility for his actions, rather than
wallowing in self-abnegation as he might have done in the past.
They walked in silence again for awhile, moving past the art building and
finally turning onto the footbridge that led across the river to the student
union. It was the dinner hour, and most people were at home or in the dormitory
cafeterias, leaving the riverbanks largely unpopulated. And of the few people
they did encounter, all were in color.
"I'm sorry," he said at last. "I'm truly sorry. I shouldn't have run, and
having run I should have come back."
"Why didn't you?" she asked.
The answer to that was simple. "What right had I to come back, after I
abandoned you?"
She stopped walking for a moment, and so did he, and for a pair of minutes she
studied his face. Finally, she said, "Perhaps no right at all. But I would
have forgiven you anyway."
He regarded her for another moment or two, and then asked the first and most
important of all his questions. "Do you forgive me now?"
"I'm here, aren't I?" And she took his hand and they turned and continued
walking.
# # #
Once across the river they turned south once again, and walked on past the
student union and the practice field and the chapel, still holding hands. As
they approached the railroad underpass which led to the library he drew her to a
halt again, and said, "He told me that 75 years is the limit."
She looked up at him and nodded slightly, encouraging him to continue.
"Seventy five years," he repeated. "At the time it seemed very reasonable, very
sensible. And he told me that he had to go to the hall of records just to
remember his wife's name." He looked down at her sadly. "I...I couldn't bear
the thought of that. So I decided to lie to myself instead."
She nodded slowly. "You decided to try to persuade yourself that you didn't
really care about me."
"That's right. I thought if I did that I could avoid being hurt after you were
gone."
She shook her head and briefly lowered her eyes, and when she looked back up
again they were shining with unshed tears. "You're an idiot."
"I know."
"But I love you anyway."
"I know." And he bent and lightly brushed his lips against hers, and then he
straightened up again and they walked on.
# # #
Eventually they reached the water treatment plant, and they turned away from the
river and walked up the hill towards the main campus. The sun had set and stars
were beginning to appear, and they walked hand-in-hand in the direction of the
rising moon.
The dinner hour was now past, and more people were beginning to appear on the
streets. And as they stepped off the sidewalk and out onto the pedestrian mall,
a young woman came rushing past them, her arms full of packages and her face
alive with life and energy. And she was gray.
And he did something he had not done in more than two years: He turned and
watched her progress across the mall, standing in silence and holding his
friend's hand until the young woman had vanished from his sight. And when he
turned his gaze downwards again she was looking up at him, understanding and
compassion writ large on her features.
"Her?" she asked.
And he nodded. "Her."
"How soon?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "It might be a minute; it might be an hour. But
soon."
She stared at him steadily for a moment, and then said, "That must be a terrible
gift to have."
"It is." He hesitated, not sure if he wanted to continue but knowing he could
no longer lie to her, even by omission. And he added, "And the worst thing of
all, the real reason why I left you, is that I could not bear the thought that
one day you would walk into the room, and it would be you."
She nodded slowly, and replied, "That would be pretty horrible." And she went
up on her toes and put her arms around his neck, and this time the kiss they
shared was neither brief nor chaste. And when they finally broke for breath,
she whispered, "Promise me something."
He nuzzled his cheek against hers, and said, "Anything within my power."
"When the time comes, don't tell me."
"I promise."
# # #
Much later they lay in his bed together, resting in each other's arms and trying
to catch their breath. Moonlight filtered in through the partially open drapes,
and a soft breeze washed over them like a warm, living blanket.
"He lied to you, you know." Her voice was soft and dreamy, and still carried an
echo of desire.
"I know," he said, matching her tone precisely.
"He lied to you," she repeated. "It isn't 75 years -- or 75 minutes, or 75
hours, or even 75 centuries." She lifted her head from his shoulder and gave
him a long, erotic kiss before continuing. "It's not any length of time at all.
The past is past, and the future may never come. All any of us really have is
now. And if we don't share now, we're only cheating ourselves." And again she
kissed him, and her hand closed around his rapidly hardening penis.
When his mouth was free again, he said, "I know. I've known that for over a
year. And I'm sorry I cheated both us out of now for so long...." As he had
earlier, down by the river, he let his voice trail off. And as she had done
earlier, down by the river, she completed his thought.
"But that's in the past. We still have now."
She rolled onto her back and pulled him down on top of her and he entered her
again with one smooth stroke, causing them both to groan softly. Her arms went
around his shoulders and her legs went around his waist, and her hips moved in
perfect rhythm with his own. And she whispered incoherent phrases of love in
his ear, urging him on, until at last they exploded together, and for a timeless
interval there was nothing in the universe but the two of them. And finally,
slowly, gently, they settled back down to earth, still wrapped in each other's
arms.
"We still have now," she whispered again, just before they both drifted off to
sleep. "We still have now. Till death do us part."
Fini